Page 8 of A Lady’s Guide to Murder
CHAPTER 7
Truth
Perceval’s villainy had two positive effects on Henrietta. Firstly, it forced her to shrug off a lethargic melancholia which had shrouded her since Edmund’s death. As her carriage travelled the Bath Road, she rested against the velvet squabs and watched woods, estates and villages pass by, and her mood lifted. Her life choices rested in her own hands as they’d never done before. She could shape her destiny – once she decided what destiny she wanted.
The second positive effect was that her appetite, which had been in abeyance for two weeks, returned with a vengeance. Feeling ravenous – and knowing her unexpected arrival at Grenham would cause the servants trouble enough without having to produce a dinner – she instructed her coachman to stop at the George and Dragon in Wargrave, which she’d frequented several times with Edmund.
The landlord made a show of ushering her into the best private parlour, no doubt so he could alert as many customers as possible to the fact that a duchess was patronising his establishment. He’d been more discreet when Edmund was alive and Henrietta was not in the mood for display. Wanting to continue her ruminations in private as she dined, she ordered something of everything on offer and then dismissed the servants.
When the dishes arrived soon after, she eagerly rubbed her palms together under the table. She would eat until bursting, as slowly or as quickly as she wished, because, for the first time in her life, there was no one to please but herself. As she removed the covers after the servants once again departed, her mouth watered at the savoury and sweet aromas. Pigeon stewed with clove and mushrooms. Oyster soup. Trout with horseradish. February parsnips swimming in butter. Creamy artichoke fricassee. Roast hare doused in currant sauce. Lemon cheesecake and green gooseberry pie with custard.
It was forty delicious minutes later before she dabbed the corners of her mouth and rang for tea, feeling calm and content for the first time in ages. The tension of the past fortnight had rolled away like the retreating tide. It would return, yes, but for now, she’d relish this moment of precious peace.
Dishes cleared and tray brought, Henrietta again requested privacy. As she sipped her tea, a breeze blew in off the Thames. Cup in hand, she strode to the window to watch the fishing boats float by in the gold-washed early evening light.
Though grief still lay heavy over her heart, there was something appealing about not having to answer to father or husband. It was a rare thing indeed for a woman and Henrietta would be damned if she’d answer to a weaselly libertine in their stead.
Liking the way that sounded, she repeated it aloud, speaking to the boats. ‘I’ll be damned before I’ll answer to you, Perceval Percy. You or any man, now that Edmund is dead.’
‘Yet you must answer to the law,’ said a vaguely familiar masculine voice from outside the window.
Henrietta was so startled she nearly dropped her tea. But since duchesses didn’t actually drop their tea, she regained her composure with barely a spill in the saucer. She placed her cup upon the table behind her, wondering if she ought to ring for a servant before discarding the idea in favour of investigating the eavesdropper herself. In case he proved dangerous, she slipped her hand into her pocket and curled her fingers around her tiny silver pistol. ‘Who spoke? Show yourself.’
And of all the possible people, it was the beastliest man in the world who popped his head over the window ledge. No, on second thought, Theodore Hawke was now the second most beastly. Perceval had recently taken top spot.
So much for her moment of peace.
The tide had rushed back in with a vengeance.
‘ You! ’ Henrietta’s blood boiled, but she hid her fury behind disdain. ‘The pestilent Hawke himself.’
‘And a good evening to you too, Your Grace.’ He gave her an appallingly cheeky grin and it was all Henrietta could do not to aim a solid kick at his teeth.
She removed her hand from her pocket. Hawke was dangerous, but he wasn’t there to rob her. The question was why he was there at all, but she wouldn’t yet give him the satisfaction of enquiring. She’d torture him a little instead, for pure enjoyment. After years of acrimonious interaction, she’d grown to realise Hawke was a proud man, in his way. He wouldn’t like her baiting him, but he deserved it for invading her privacy.
She returned his smirk. ‘No need to ask why you are here. The answer has been obvious for years. You’re obsessed with me.’ Her purpose was achieved, for Hawke’s handsome face tightened into a scowl, and she triumphed. ‘Well, and so you’ve had the great pleasure of seeing me, but now you must be gone, for I do not share your obsession. Fly away like a good hawk or I shall send my footman for a magistrate.’
Rather than relieving her of his foul presence, he hoisted himself up and over the ledge into her private parlour. After his dusty boots landed with a thud on the carpeted floor, he slowly extended himself to his regrettably impressive height and rolled his broad shoulders, watching her all the while. ‘It’s you who have need to avoid a magistrate, not I.’
That forced her laughter. ‘Indeed?’ Oh, how she hated that she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. ‘Tell me, Mr Hawke, why should I avoid a magistrate, when you are the one invading my privacy in a threatening manner?’
‘Threatening?’ He took a seat on the window ledge, stretched out his long legs and pushed his hat to the back of his head, which allowed the evening light to highlight his cheekbones and chiselled jaw in a most disconcerting manner. He blinked innocently; the man had impossibly long lashes. ‘In what way do you find me threatening, madam?’
At the moment, the most threatening thing about the scoundrel was how her traitorous body warmed to him. Nor was it the first time. She loathed him – truly, she did – but even as they’d exchanged glares over the years, she could never loathe him so much that she failed to notice his good looks.
Feeling her danger, she changed the subject. ‘I understand you wrote more vitriol about me, or about my late husband, in your column this morning. You’ll forgive me for not knowing the particulars. I haven’t had the chance to peruse your vile lies today.’
‘Not lies, Your Grace. And even vile truths deserve to be spoken.’
‘Truth!’ Henrietta rolled her eyes. ‘And what is truth, Mr Hawke? I believe we established some years ago that you and I subscribe to different accounts on this matter. I prefer an informed version of the truth and you prefer to believe whatever your sordid imagination thinks you saw.’
‘Some truths may depend upon interpretation, yes. But others are absolute,’ he replied coolly. ‘By the by, perhaps it would be more fitting if you quoted Judas rather than Pilate.’
Henrietta tapped her foot and stared at the man, wondering how he always succeeded in frustrating her when she’d managed to ignore the scorn of people many times his consequence over the years. ‘So, you persist in believing me a traitor to my husband.’
His reply was as sombre as a Good Friday sermon. ‘As of today, I have more reason than ever to believe you a traitor.’
She sighed, resigned. ‘I already know it’s useless to ask you not to print what you overheard me say about Perceval Percy – which was a private thought spoken aloud only to give myself strength, not that you care.’ A faint line appeared between Hawke’s straight dark brows before quickly disappearing. ‘But why are you here, Mr Hawke? Tell me and perhaps I shall give you what you wish, just so I can get on with my life and grieve in private, which is all I want.’
‘Grieve?’ he asked. ‘Do you grieve for him?’
She steadied herself with a deep breath. ‘Yes, Mr Hawke, I do. But you will never believe that, so I shall ask again. What do you want from me?’
‘The truth, Your Grace.’
Henrietta lifted her hands in exasperation. ‘For heaven’s sake, what truth?’
‘The truth about your husband’s murder.’
Because he said the words as matter-of-factly as one might mention the weather, it took a moment for her to absorb them. But when she did, they hit her gut with the force of a thousand horses. These must be the rumours to which her parents and Mr Quigley had referred.
‘His … his …’ She couldn’t bring herself to say the word murder . It stuck in her throat, a filthy word, an evil word. Edmund murdered ? No one, no one , could wish to end the life of someone so wholly honourable.
Rage overtook her and she didn’t attempt to contain it. She clenched her fists, shaking, and addressed Hawke with vehemence. ‘How dare you? How dare you besmirch my husband’s memory with your horrid lies?’ She hated that her composure was crumbling. She hated that her voice was cracking. She hated that she was falling apart in front of the man who had sought to ruin her for years. But at the same time, she didn’t fight it. She wanted Theodore Hawke to understand – for once, to understand – that he didn’t have the right to hurt Edmund any more. ‘My husband died of a seizure, in great pain, and yet even now you cannot let him rest in peace? You seek to soil his name, to bring about rumours and speculation that will do nothing but incite hate and fear, and for what? Tell me, for what ?’
‘For the truth,’ Hawke replied, cool as a cucumber.
‘The truth is no one killed my husband. He died alone with me , in my arms.’
‘Yes, that is supported by witnesses. As are his dying words, overheard by your footman. “My dear sweet killed me.” ’
Henrietta stared in disbelief. ‘ That is the basis for your preposterous theory? His having uttered the phrase “killed me”? Edmund’s last words were senseless, a disconnected jumble. He was struggling to speak. And besides, his very last word was something altogether different.’
James. The last word Edmund had uttered in his earthly existence.
Hawke dismissed her protest with an unconcerned shrug. ‘The statement your footman overheard is not the sole reason I – and others – know your husband was murdered. He was most certainly poisoned—’
Henrietta choked on her own breath. ‘Poisoned!’
Hawke’s eyes narrowed, as if scrutinising her reaction. ‘ And his body bore evidence of strangulation. The magistrate may simply be waiting for you to make a blunder before arresting you – and your flight from London on the very day my speculations regarding the murder were printed could be perceived as confirmation of your guilt. If the Runners have learnt of your flight, it’s possible they will arrive at Grenham soon and you could find yourself escorted back to London by the chief magistrate himself.’
Henrietta’s hands flew to her cheeks as she grasped his meaning. ‘You think I killed my husband?’
‘ Some people think you killed him,’ he replied calmly. ‘I’ve not yet decided if I agree.’
It was all she could do not to slap his face. ‘And do you think that if I did this despicable thing, I would simply confess so that you can write about it in your filthy rag? Is that why you followed me?’
He regarded her with steely focus. ‘I already said I haven’t decided if you are so wholly evil, Your Grace. But I’m not letting you out of my sight until I discover the truth.’
Indignation rose in Henrietta.
If Theodore Hawke thought he could keep his eye on her , he needed to think again.